Sand
by
Gary Earl Ross
Sand
scours the last
threads of flesh
from bone, then
scores and pits
bone until, scattered
by the night wind,
what was once
one of the People
is returned to
the desert from
which we all came.
But the change
is without pain,
child, for the
eyes and heart
are gone long
before the sand
can begin its
work. Instead
of waking beneath
the sand, buried
like filth and
facing an afterlife
of choking terror
and darkness,
the spirit wakes
in the belly of
the bird that
carries it to
heaven. The vulture,
you see, is our
messenger to God.
It has been so
always in the
City Between Desert
and Sea. It shall
be so forever.
Once,
long ago, there
was a man who
loved a woman
and wanted her
for his wife.
She was a comely
woman, with dark,
burning eyes and
myrrh-scented
skin and hair
-- and a dowry
limited to the
bracelets on her
wrists and the
rings on her fingers.
Her name was Solana
-- yes, just like
your grandmother.
The man who loved
her so wildly,
who would kill
for her, was named
Nimbruk. He was
a common metalsmith,
a maker of pots
and simple jewelry,
as was his younger
brother Inake.
Fearing refusal,
Nimbruk kept his
love in his breast,
speaking of it
to no one, not
even his brother.
But it was Inake
who took Solana
for his wife.
When she embraced
Nimbruk as her
brother, the pain
was so great that
he lost any remnant
of fraternal piety
that might have
prevented the
tragedy that would
follow.
Nimbruk
left the City,
without forewarning
or explanation.
Unaware of his
jealousy and anger,
Inake and Solana
worried that he
might have fallen
prey to nomadic
thieves who relieved
him of his money
and tools and
took him into
the desert to
die. For several
days after Nimbruk
disappeared, Inake
followed one funeral
procession after
another into the
desert and studied
the patterns of
the messengers
that circled in
wait. He saw no
evidence the great
birds were feasting
outside the funerarium,
saw no signs of
his brother. After
a time, he gave
up, contenting
himself with the
certainty that
if Nimbruk had
fallen victim
to evil in the
vast and unforgiving
desert, at least
his soul had been
carried skyward
to its rest. Eventually,
however, word
of Nimbruk’s
fate reached the
City. He had not
been taken into
the desert at
all. Instead,
he had crossed
the Sea in a great
ship to the land
of the heathens
that put their
dead beneath the
ground.
At
that time we had
just begun to
trade with the
heathens. Their
spices were unlike
ours, as were
their skinpaints
and fabrics and
the things they
made from gold,
silver, and copper.
Many strange artisans
lived among us,
and their work
fetched outrageous
sums in the marketplace.
Just as there
was great interest
here in unusual
heathen artistry,
so was there great
interest across
the Sea in what
Nimbruk was able
to do with copper
and other metals.
He prospered and
grew fat and became
a man of some
influence among
the heathens.
In
his brother’s
absence, Inake
prospered too,
though not as
much. His work
was of a more
utilitarian nature,
but his craftsmanship
was without peer
and his pots,
shields, and bracelets
were in demand.
The beautiful
Solana was the
one who grew fat,
with child after
child, until there
were two sons
and three daughters.
Watching his sons
grow and play
reminded Inake
of his own joyful
childhood with
Nimbruk. They
too had wrestled
and chased each
other through
the streets and
played Shah Duk
with pieces of
colored glass
on a grid drawn
into the dirt.
Inake missed his
brother and still
did not understand
why he had left.
Over the years
every message
he had sent by
ship to the land
of the heathens
had gone unanswered,
so he had given
up all hope of
ever seeing Nimbruk
again.
Then
one day Nimbruk
returned.
Richly
garbed, he stepped
off a trading
ship and strode
into the City
with heathen servants
in tow. Needing
no directions
to the shop he
had once shared
with his brother,
he went straight
there, with gifts
for Inake and
his family. Surprised
into silence,
Inake embraced
his brother and
wept. When at
last he found
his voice, he
could not stop
speaking. He introduced
his sons, nine
and seven, and
told of his daughters,
at home with Solana.
He pressed Nimbruk
for the details
of his own life.
Yes, he was prosperous,
but was he well?
Did he have a
wife? Children?
Nimbruk apologized
for failing to
answer so many
letters and promised
to reveal all,
but only if his
heathen servants
could prepare
a feast for Inake
and his family.
“Shall
we invite our
old friends and
neighbors?”
“Perhaps
another night,”
Nimbruk said,
clasping his brother
to him. “Tonight
yours is the only
company I desire,
yours and Solana’s.
You are my only
family. I have
missed you terribly.”
There
was great rejoicing
in Inake’s
household that
evening. Nimbruk
sat at the head
of the table and
directed his servants
as they laid platters
with a dazzling
assortment of
vegetables and
sweetbreads, fruits
and sweetmeats,
stuffed fowl and
honey wine. He
showed his nephews
and nieces how
to eat one strange
delicacy after
another and laughed
when they wrinkled
their noses or
twisted their
lips at smells
and tastes to
which they were
unaccustomed.
Solana ate with
the decorum befitting
the mother of
the house, but
Inake approached
his plate as if
he had seen no
food in a fortnight.
Between mouthfuls
he tried to bring
Nimbruk up to
date on people
they had known,
which led to a
rapid exchange
of childhood memories
and impressions
that left them
both laughing
and shaking their
heads. Before
long the two brothers
were singing together,
as they had done
in their youth.
“I
wanted to see
the world beyond
the City,”
Nimbruk said wistfully,
when the scraps
had been cleared
and the wine was
nearly gone. The
children had been
sent to bed, and
the servants had
retired. “My
trade has kept
me well occupied
and well fed,
so I have had
no time to take
a wife. Besides,
I am as strange
to the people
amongst whom I
live as they are
to me. Their divers
practices never
fail to amaze
me. Oh, I am happy
enough amongst
them, and I respect
them for the...sincerity
of their behaviors
and beliefs. But
the women there
are not like you,
dear sister. They
could never love
me, a foreigner,
as you have loved
my brother. In
truth, they would
have given me
sturdy children
but none so exquisite
as the five of
yours.”
For a moment Nimbruk
said nothing as
he gazed upon
his sister-in-law.
“Even after
these many years,
yours remains
the kind of beauty
celebrated in
the songs of our
grandfathers’
grandfathers.”
Indeed
still beautiful,
Solana lowered
her eyes, as modesty
demanded, and
for a heartbeat
or two there was
an uncomfortable
silence at the
table. Then Nimbruk
hastened to talk
of other things.
He boasted of
the metalworking
commissions he
had received from
the heathen king
and described
the land’s
peculiar religious
customs and folk
dances and unique
laws. “Their
city on the other
side of the Sea
is larger than
ours, and beyond
it there is no
great desert but
vast green fields
full of unusual
plants and fantastic
animals. Many
of their traditions
in worship and
food and healing
come directly
from these plants
and animals.”
“What
of their treatment
of the dead?”
Inake asked. “How
can they condemn
their souls to
eternal darkness?”
“To
them it is not
darkness,”
Nimbruk said.
“It is the
beginning of the
journey toward
the light.”
“But
how can it be
anything but darkness?”
Inake protested.
“In the
ground how can?”
Nimbruk
silenced his younger
brother with an
uplifted hand.
“The heathen
ways are rather
difficult to understand,
but I shall try
to explain. To
them, when the
body dies, the
spirit leaves
it immediately
and begins its
journey to God
before the body
is placed in the
earth.”
“Without
a messenger?”
Solana asked,
confused.
“And
how does it leave
without the rending
of flesh?”
Inake added. “Even
if they believe
the spirit does
not die on the
wind as it rises
to God, they cannot
think it passes
unaided through
the wall of the
skin.”
Solana
shuddered. “To
think, so many
souls lost.”
Nimbruk
smiled. “I
have said the
heathen ways are
strange.”
Soon
the conversation
turned to other
matters, and before
long all three,
barely able to
keep their eyes
open, went to
bed.
Heavy
with wine and
food, Inake and
Solana slept deeply,
dreamlessly. On
a less festive
night they might
have heard Nimbruk
steal into their
chamber. Might
have heard his
jealous heart
pounding as he
watched them curled
together on their
bed in a shaft
of moonlight coming
through the window.
Might have heard
the grunt of displeasure
so deep in his
throat and the
rustle of his
clothing as he
withdrew and uncorked
a vial. Might
have heard him
creep toward the
bed and pour the
contents of the
vial into his
sleeping brother’s
ear.
The
next morning the
household was
awakened by Solana’s
screams...
*
* *
News
of Inake’s
death spread quickly
within the walls
of the City, even
more quickly than
news of Nimbruk’s
return. Everyone
held Inake in
high esteem for
his industry and
his devotion to
his family. Many
of the friends
and neighbors
who joined the
late afternoon
funeral procession
into the desert
were pleasantly
surprised to see
Nimbruk and offered
their condolences
as much to him
as to Solana and
the children.
When he wasn’t
playing the dutiful
brother-in-law
and uncle, Nimbruk
wept and blamed
himself for overexciting
his brother with
his unannounced
return. The mourners
reassured him
that with no mark
of violence upon
his body and no
odor of poison
or disease upon
his lips, his
brother had died
naturally, peacefully.
No, it could not
have been the
heathen food,
they said, for
no one else in
the household
had died or even
fallen ill. And
Inake must have
died happy, in
bed beside his
beautiful wife,
and after a reunion
with his long-absent
brother. His was
a good death,
they said, to
be envied and
wished for, even
if it did come
too soon.
Wound
in a cloth and
placed on a pallet,
Inake was borne
on the shoulders
of his friends
deep into the
desert to the
sacred funerarium.
There the winding
cloth was removed
and, naked, he
was laid in a
spot unlittered
by fresh bones
but consecrated
by the dust of
ancestral bone.
The mourners sang
and lifted their
eyes to God to
commend Inake
into the afterlight.
The messengers
began to circle
even before the
priest could finish
the summoning
prayer. As everyone
turned to begin
the long recessional
toward the City,
Nimbruk kept an
arm tight around
Solana. Quietly,
he urged her never
to look back,
just to listen
to the great flapping
and terrible screeching
that signaled
the gathering
of her husband’s
soul.
*
* *
Some
weeks later, his
brother’s
affairs having
been concluded,
Nimbruk announced
that it was time
for him to return
to the land of
the heathens.
Much business
was waiting there
for him. Saddened
as he was, he
had a trade and
a life to resume.
He was leaving
behind gold and
would soon send
more so that Solana
need never worry
for herself and
the children.
But
Solana had grown
used to his presence
and his conversation
in the evenings,
had come to depend
upon his counsel
in household matters.
“Can you
not ply your trade
here? Inake left
a business you
once shared. Can
you not return
to the shop and
make your life
here, amongst
us, your only
family?”
Nimbruk
was silent for
a time as joy
flooded into him.
He had wanted
nothing more than
for Solana to
ask him to stay.
But he must not
agree too readily,
must not expose
his feelings too
early. She must
never suspect
that he had harbored
any adoration
of her for so
long that he might
have had something
to do with Inake’s
death. So he concealed
his delight as
carefully as he
had concealed
his love for Solana
when they were
young. “I
must go at least
for a time,”
he said, “to
tend to commissions
that have piled
up in my absence,
tasks I dare not
leave to my apprentices.
I shall return
in two?no, three
months, after
I have got even
with my work and
you, all of you,
have had time
to yourselves.
Then we shall
see what the future
holds.”
*
* *
Nimbruk
spent the next
three months as
he had spent the
entire year before
his surprise return
to the City, turning
his metalworks
into a self-sustaining
enterprise he
could oversee
from a distance.
His apprentices
having been schooled
in our arts and
his chief servants
having gained
his trust long
ago, he would
need to visit
the metalworks
only once or twice
a year. With what
he knew of the
heathen arts,
he could make
Inake’s
shop more profitable
than ever. When
at last he journeyed
back to the City
and Solana, his
humility masked
the cold certainty
that he would
amass greater
wealth on both
sides of the water
and sooner or
later his sister-in-law
would become his.
Head bowed before
her and a pair
of servants at
his back, Nimbruk
declared it was
an honor and a
pleasure to make
himself responsible
for the lives
and fortunes of
the six who meant
more to him than
anyone else alive.
Still he said
nothing of his
love for Solana.
Time and closeness,
he knew, were
his best allies.
To
his credit, Nimbruk
threw himself
into the duties
of caring for
his brother’s
family as if discharging
the terms of a
sacred trust.
He made apprentices
of the boys, Philidan
and Turik, and
crafted the most
exquisite gold
bracelets for
Solana and her
daughters. Their
table never lacked
for food or drink,
stories or songs.
Visitors came
regularly. All
were amazed at
how much life
the once withdrawn
Nimbruk brought
into the home
of his dead brother.
More months passed.
Soon, of course,
there was talk
in the streets
that Solana should
consider marriage
to her brother-in-law.
To each friend
or neighbor who
raised the question,
Nimbruk averted
his eyes and said
he was unworthy
of so fine a woman.
Yes, he admitted,
it was hard not
to fall under
her spell, living
in the same house
and all, but he
wished no dishonor
to his brother’s
memory. He asked
everyone to swear
an oath against
spreading such
talk, lest it
get back to Solana
and jeopardize
her sisterly affection
for him.
Eventually,
word did reach
Solana, as he
had known it must
when he first
sent his servants
to the marketplace
to whisper to
each other what
a fine pair their
master and the
mistress would
make. In later
years Nimbruk
could pinpoint
the day she began
to give weight
to such talk.
It was the third
evening of the
feast of the autumn
moon, and seated
in the street
with the women
of the neighborhood
as the men danced
by firelight,
she looked at
him as if seeing
him, truly seeing
him, for the first
time. He pretended
not to notice
her eyes upon
him, not to feel
them caressing
his back as he
danced in the
circle of men.
He did not dare
meet them with
his own eyes for
fear that he might
lose his resolve
and confess his
feelings in front
of everyone. No
one would have
minded or been
surprised, but
he thought it
wise to give things
still more time,
to let his desires
almost accomplish
themselves. The
truest test of
all he had set
in motion would
be whether she
came to him. Then
there would be
no lingering doubt,
no mistaking her
feelings. Thus
was he ready when,
a few weeks later,
she appeared at
his bedside in
the middle of
a chilly night.
They
were married one
month after the
anniversary of
Inake’s
death.
*
* *
For
the next eight
years Nimbruk
worked to be the
best husband and
father imaginable,
as if atoning
for the theft
of his brother’s
family. Happily,
he led the them
in all the rituals
expected of the
head of the household,
including prayers
to the memory
of the dead. Even
after the name
Inake slipped
from Solana’s
lips, thrice during
sleep and once
during lovemaking,
his devotion to
her was unwavering,
his efforts to
fulfil her every
desire overwhelming.
Early on she learned
to be more careful
in the marketplace,
lest he fill the
house with every
trinket, carving,
and piece of clothing
she admired. But
he was especially
dutiful when it
came to the children,
though even the
youngest daughter,
who had no real
memory of her
father, called
him uncle. He
told them stories,
taught them games,
and crafted playthings
for them out of
copper and wood.
He began a dowry
for each daughter
and turned the
sons into fine
artisans. Though
they had never
called him father,
and never would,
they all loved
and honored him.
All,
that is, except
Turik, who was
never rude, never
disrespectful,
but always...distant.
Remote. Detached.
Too watchful to
be a child. Through
those eight years,
Nimbruk’s
single discomfort,
he realized in
a sudden flash
of understanding
before a quiet
winter dawn, was
Turik’s
eyes. They were
large, dark eyes,
depthless and
unreadable. A
true artisan’s
eyes, unflinching
in their hunger
for detail and
nuance. Staring
at him across
the table or across
the shop. Already
open and fixed
on Nimbruk’s
face when he concluded
family prayers.
Gazing into him,
so deeply into
him. It was Turik’s
eyes he saw whenever
he closed his
own and the memory
of what he had
done to his brother
was upon him.
Still in bed as
the first threads
of sunlight filtered
into their curtained
chamber that morning,
Nimbruk decided
he must do something
about his nephew’s
eyes. The solution
came to him almost
at once.
Philidan
was eighteen now
and sturdy, with
broad shoulders,
callused hands,
and an easy smile.
As the elder son,
he was expected
to become a partner
in his father’s
shop. The business
had grown well
and prospered
under Nimbruk’s
supervision, and
the well-trained
Philidan was more
than equal to
the task of keeping
the metalworks
alive. Turik,
on the other hand,
was only sixteen
and still an apprentice,
but equally strong
and possessed
of such deft,
precise fingers
that he was already
qualified for
a partnership
himself. Nimbruk
had taught them
both well, and
in his expert
tutelage lay the
solution to his
unease around
Turik.
At
dinner that evening,
Nimbruk announced
it was time Philidan
took the responsibilities
of a partner in
the shop in the
City. “You
are ready, boy,”
he said. “My
brother would
be proud of the
man you’ve
become.”
What he said next
surprised the
whole family.
“And Turik,
you have grown
into an exceptionally
fine craftsman
yourself. There
is little more
that I can teach
you here, so after
much thought,
I have decided
you shall complete
your apprenticeship
in the land of
the heathens.”
He bit his lip
at Solana’s
sudden intake
of breath but
recovered quickly
enough to turn
to her with a
smile. “My
dear, he will
be perfectly safe
in my house there,
under the protection
of my servants
and my workers.
There is so much
he will learn
there, so much
he will see. This
is the opportunity
of a lifetime,
not only for him
but for the family
as well. Sooner
or later, my metalworking
days will come
to an end, as
will my tolerance
of traveling back
and forth between
cities. With Philidan
here and Turik
there, our family
will thrive for
generations. Think
what the dowries
will become, and
the future for
your -- our --
unborn grandchildren.”
After
a brief silence,
Solana said, “I
worry that he
will forget our
ways and fall
into the ways
of the heathens.
Some of the heathens
living here have
seen the true
light and adopted
our customs. I
have heard talk
of our people
over there, forsaking
our traditions
for something
new.”
“I
never did,”
Nimbruk said cheerfully.
“Nor will
Turik. He is well
schooled in the
ways of the People.
He will prosper
and make us proud.”
So
Turik crossed
the Sea, and Nimbruk
felt better in
the absence of
his eyes.
*
* *
The
heathen city embraced
Turik like an
honored houseguest.
It filled his
eyes and his other
senses with the
wonder of new
dances and songs,
bizarre clothing
and skin art,
and foods even
stranger than
the fare his uncle’s
servants often
prepared. Perhaps
because he was
ready to emerge
from his brother’s
shadow and his
uncle’s
household, he
thrived. Within
a few years he
mastered the heathen
arts and proved
an inventive metalsmith
in his own right,
earning praise
and commissions
for his bold creations.
His work brought
him into the finest
households, before
the finest families,
before their adoring
daughters. Unlike
his uncle, he
was unburdened
by memories of
a lost love on
the other side
of the Sea and
grew into strapping
manhood with a
healthy interest
in women.
The
colorfully clad
heathen women
found him as exotic
as he found them.
He grew quite
skilled at pleasing
them, though no
one truly captured
his heart until
he met a young
enchantress named
Aletra. She was
slim and amber-skinned,
with long legs
and eyes blacker
and larger than
any he had ever
seen. She wore
the sun painted
on her left breast
and the moon painted
on her right,
and between them
Turik found a
universe of emotions
unlike any he
had felt in his
previous assignations.
From the first
night he lay with
her, and her small
breast fit so
perfectly in his
hand, he surrendered
his life to her,
his art, his soul.
As he worked in
the shop, his
head spun so with
visions of lying
in her arms at
night that by
the end of each
day he could barely
breathe. No matter.
He believed he
was the luckiest
man in the heathen
city, for her
feelings toward
him were equally
strong.
Soon
they were married,
with no witnesses
but shop and household
servants. Turik
moved her into
his house?his
uncle’s
house?where they
began a life together
with all the joy
and hope of their
youth. The union
proved unfortunate,
however, not because
of the differences
in their worlds
or Solana’s
strained letter
of congratulations
but because of
a moment of perfect
clarity occasioned
by sweet, simple
pillow talk.
In
her own fashion,
the enchantress
is as skilled
a practitioner
as the metalsmith.
Like her mother
before her, Aletra
was deft in the
shadow arts and
sometimes explained
to her husband
as much of her
craft as was permitted.
On one such night
Turik was seized
by a memory. As
Aletra described
potions and poisons
that are introduced
into the body
through the ear,
he recalled that
as a child he
had come to the
door of his parents’
room one night
and been surprised
to see his uncle
bending over the
bed. He had withdrawn
at once, sensing
that he should
not disturb a
man planting a
kiss on the cheek
of his sleeping
brother. Had he
seen something
withdrawn from
the folds of his
uncle’s
clothing and emptied
into his father’s
ear? The next
morning, he remembered,
his father was
dead. Was there
some connection?
Had that possibility
been the thing
swimming beneath
his consciousness
all these years?
Had it kept him
staring so absently
at his uncle,
kept him so distant?
He
shared with Aletra
his memories and
suspicions. Head
in the crook of
his arm, she asked
if he could remember
anything about
what he had seen
poured into his
father’s
ear. Color? Thickness?
Smell? He closed
his eyes, forced
his mind backward,
strained to notice
details that were
just not in his
memory, and shook
his head. “I
was too far away,”
he said. “Is
any of that important?”
“Some
potions cause
death,”
she answered gently,
“and others
cause only the
appearance of
death?a waking
death that lasts
for two or three
days, with all
the senses intact
but no ability
to move or speak.”
It
was then that
the horror began
to claw at his
heart.
*
* *
Before
Nimbruk’s
next scheduled
visit, Turik returned
to the City, his
wife and three
of his uncle’s
servants behind
him. It is uncertain
whether his mother’s
tears were from
joy at the sight
of the grown son
she had not seen
in five years
or from fear that
his soul was lost
to the heathens.
In any case, Solana
embraced her new
daughter and welcomed
her into their
home. Philidan
and his sisters
were delighted
at their brother’s
return. They clustered
around him, kissing
him and laughing
and peppering
him with questions
about life in
the heathen city.
When he had offered
them his own affectionate
laughter and introduced
Aletra and answered
their questions,
they told him
of their own news.
Philidan’s
shop was doing
a brisk business,
and Kelani, the
eldest sister,
was betrothed.
Thanks to their
uncle’s
hard work, the
other sisters’
dowries had grown
so large that
when they were
of age, they would
have no trouble
finding a husband.
Solana, of course,
had the servants
prepare a stunning
feast of traditional
dishes Turik had
not tasted in
years.
Only
Nimbruk seemed
unmoved by Turik’s
homecoming. He
stood aside as
the others fussed
over the newlyweds
and said few words
during the evening
meal, though he
strove to make
himself appear
in good spirits.
As discreetly
as he could he
studied Turik,
but at odd moments
his nephew’s
eyes met his,
held them, unnerved
him. There was
something different
about the way
Turik looked at
him now. Before,
there had been
an emptiness to
be filled, a child’s
unspoken curiosity
that had gone
unsatisfied, a
hunger that hung
between them.
Now Turik had
the steady gaze
of a man whose
wonder has long
since died?or
been answered.
In fact, he looked
much older than
his twenty-one
years. As he had
long ago, Nimbruk
felt the stirrings
of an inexplicable
unease.
“What
troubles you,
husband?”
Solana asked when
he retired to
their chamber
in the early hours
of morning.
“Nothing
but old age, my
sweet, whose chariot
closes in upon
me with ever faster
horses.”
Startled that
she had noticed
the mood he was
trying to mask,
he settled himself
into bed beside
her. “Turik
with such a fine
young wife?and
Kelani about to
be wed. All this
has made me think
of the grandchildren
that soon will
liven this house.”
He offered Solana
his saddest smile.
“I have
come to consider
grandchildren
the last vanity
of an old man.”
“You
will be as wonderful
a grandfather,”
she began, “as
you have been
a father. As you
have been a husband.”
Tears welled in
her eyes. “When
Inake...died,
you were the best
brother you could
be, to him and
to me, and the
best uncle my
children could
ever want. You
sacrificed your
life for us, gave
up all that you
held dear so that
we might live.”
She looked away.
“And I could
never thank you
properly. I could
not even give
you a child of
your own.”
Then she wept.
“Solana,”
he said, embracing
her from behind.
She
turned in his
arms to face him.
“If any
man deserves to
be called grandfather,
it is you,”
she said with
a passion that
surprised him.
“The name
will ring like
a song through
this house.”
Then she kissed
him, and they
made love before
they fell asleep.
*
* *
The
next morning Solana’s
screams shattered
Nimbruk’s
sleep, and he
felt himself pushed
onto his back.
He heard her voice
and her cries
above him. Felt
her hands on his
chest and arms,
shaking him, shaking
him. Smelled the
myrrh in her hair
as it tickled
his face. Felt
the heat of her
tears splash onto
his cheeks, her
lips brush against
his own. Saw only
two thin feathers
of light through
the lashes of
his closed eyes.
He could not move,
and when he realized
what must have
happened, he wanted
to scream himself.
But he could not
move.
The
family rushed
into the chamber.
Nimbruk heard
Solana send someone
for a physician.
Everyone else
gathered around
the bed, weeping
and kissing him,
cradling his head,
stroking his hands.
When the physician
came, the old
man placed his
ear against Nimbruk’s
chest, pried open
the mouth and
placed his nose
between Nimbruk’s
teeth to draw
in a deep breath,
peeled back the
eyelids and looked
into Nimbruk’s
eyes for a long
time. Then he
twisted the head
this way and that,
his dry fingers
probing Nimbruk’s
neck, a ragged
thumbnail scratching
the skin. “No
marks upon the
body,” he
said. “No
sign or smell
of poison. No
damage to the
throat. He has
died just like
his brother, likely
from the same
cause, some weakness
or disease that
runs in the family.
Did not his parents
die young, before
their children
were fully grown?”
“Yes,”
Solana said between
sobs. “His
father, then his
mother, a few
months apart.
Inake and he were
barely in their
teens.”
“There
you have it then.”
The old physician’s
voice grew firm
with certainty.
“Something
peculiar to them
both which they
passed on to their
children, though
Nimbruk outlasted
them all. At least
he lived to see
some of these
children reach
their majority.”
Nimbruk
could see Philidan
and his sisters
clustered behind
the physician,
weeping, and could
hear Solana beside
his left ear,
murmuring that
people would think
she had cursed
two husbands.
He did not know
where Turik and
Aletra were but
he sensed they
were in the room.
Then the physician
forced his mouth
shut, hard enough
to make his teeth
hurt briefly,
and closed his
eyes with dirty
thumbs. Within
a few minutes
Nimbruk was alone
in the bedchamber.
Later
the women washed
his body and wrapped
it in a cloth.
Solana and Kelani
described our
funerary customs
to Aletra as she
assisted them.
The sun must not
set on the body,
Solana explained,
because the night
winds might cover
it with sand and
trap his soul
in eternal choking
darkness before
the messengers
had a chance to
retrieve it and
carry it to the
afterlight. In
late morning,
friends would
gather in the
house to pay their
respects. The
priest would offer
prayers for the
continued strength
of the family.
Afterward, each
family member
would have a moment
alone with him,
to whisper a final
word of love or
thanks, to seek
or offer special
forgiveness for
an unfinished
dispute, and to
ask him to speak
well of them before
God. Then, in
the afternoon,
the procession
would begin, gathering
mourners as it
moved through
the streets. Nimbruk
would be borne
to the funerarium
and left for the
messengers that
would collect
his soul before
nightfall.
Nimbruk
listened with
increasing horror
and would have
cried out had
he been able to
do so. Of all
the kindnesses
he overheard that
morning and all
the words of love
whispered into
his ears early
that afternoon,
the only phrase
that stayed with
him as his pallet
was carried into
the desert was
Turik’s:
“For my
father.”
When
he had been left
naked in the sun
and the messengers
settled upon him
and he felt their
talons and beaks
begin to work
on him, he understood
for the first
time what Inake
must have endured.
The pain was searing.
The horror of
it was listening
to the splitting
of his own skin,
the tearing of
his own flesh,
the thick, wet
swallows of the
messengers. He
knew that through
this fire he would
feel himself bleed
to death before
the potion wore
off and the sand
could begin to
scour his bones.
Unable to scream
to fight the pain,
he wished for
a swift death
and strained to
recall endearments
and prayers offered
earlier on his
behalf. His only
consolation was
the hope that
when he stood
in the presence
of God, those
words and all
he had done for
Solana and her
children would
help balance the
evil he had visited
upon his brother.
But
even so meager
a penance was
denied him. We
know the story
of Nimbruk because
of what Turik,
my great-grandfather,
told his son many
years later, on
his own deathbed.
Three of Nimbruk’s
servants, those
who had come with
them to the City,
lingered behind,
waiting until
the recessional
was out of sight.
Never having understood
what they called
our pagan practices,
especially our
rites for the
dead, they shooed
away the great
birds and carried
the bloody but
still living Nimbruk
off for a proper
burial, in a grave
Aletra had sent
them to dig before
the body was prepared.
The heathens believed
with all their
hearts their fallen
master would be
happier there.
A
deep, deep grave
some distance
away from the
funerarium, it
was already beginning
to shift and fill,
even before they
laid him in it,
with the only
surface material
for miles around.
Sand.
©
2007 by Gary Earl
Ross
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